


The King Of Shame

by orphan_account



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Breathplay, F/M, Gangbang, Mass Effect Kink Meme, Masturbation, Mind Meld, Multi, Office Sex, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Stalking, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, lots of tags because lots of kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees her everywhere he goes, and trying to figure out why is driving him crazy. F!Shep/every turian + Garrus voyeurism for the kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus works overtime.

This space station has turned you into an insomniac. Deep in the Wards, there is no day or night cycle, only dim lights and the constant thrum of far-off seedy nightclubs. Neon signs light the walls and provide helpful directions when you forget your way around. It shouldn’t be so easy to lose your way here; you’ve been here for months.

Your coworkers joke around with you sometimes, asking you how long you’ve been here, anyway.

You give them a vague reply, because telling them “Five months, seventeen days, twenty hours” would make you sound like a homesick loser. You are a homesick loser. You hate it here. You miss your mother and sister (not your father, _not your father, it’s all his fault_ you’re stuck here) and your home planet.

At least Palaven had open skies and real water, unlike the Presidium, with its too-bright artificial light panels and annoying, overly chipper VI tour guides at every turn. Every time you take the elevator up to its artificial verdancy for some stupid routine security patrol, your eyes burn from the brightness. Thank the Spirits for your visor, which at least blocks out the fake sunlight in one of your eyes.

Fuck. You could have been a Spectre fighting interstellar crime far away on some dreadnought right now, instead of sitting at a bland desk surrounded by paperwork and red tape. Instead you are here.

On the Citadel.

Wasting your youth away at the behest of your father, _who only wants the best for you, Garrus._

Next door, you can hear a door whoosh closed. Curious. C-Sec officers are usually required to keep an open-door policy, so as to keep the whole legal process in the semblance of transparency. It’s sort of stupid.

As you’re wondering why Whatshisname next door (you met him once, at an orientation, but you can’t remember what his name is. What was it that he did? Was he the C-Sec requisitions guy? You never really needed to visit him) would ever really need to shut and lock his door, you suddenly hear regulation armor hitting the floor disgracefully with a loud thunk. You’ve served your time in the turian military, just like every turian guy in this shithole; you know that blowing off steam, as they say, is totally normal. But something about the situation doesn’t feel like C-Sec requisitions guy next door’s just having a casual wank.

A female voice cuts through the wall- _oh spirits, he’s not alone_. You stare out your own door intently, into the empty office across the hall. You try not to listen.

Her voice is familiar. You've seen her before. She got in an elevator before you and you watched the doors close behind her as you missed your elevator, like a fucking chump. Her hair is red and her face is lightly freckled with those markings that some humans have. If she was in your office, you'd fuck her without a second thought, too.

“So, I’ve heard about your,” she pauses for a second, “large weapons supply,” and she laughs gently. Yes, it's definitely her, the girl from the elevator. As a human you once knew, once met in a bar long ago, would say, " _la femme de l'escalier._ "

"Show me what you've got."

Guy-next-door's subharmonics are rumbling and they're sending wasted signals of lust and desire and possessiveness to his human. She can obviously tell how he's feeling through other means, though, because you can hear her panting and the muffled thump of chitinous plates on soft skin.

 

This shouldn't be turning you on.

You shouldn't be listening to this. This is depraved, wrong, filthy perverted. You should be focused on work, you should be turning in forms and taking the rapid transport home. You cover your ears with your hands like a child, knowing full well that it won't change anything. It won’t change how she hisses and muffledly moans into her fist when his mandibles clamp down on her shoulder, it won't change the wet noises her cunt makes as he pounds into her. It won't change how your plates are shifting and how your uniform is getting tight at the seams.

Her moans from the office next door assault your eardrums and you try to ignore it, you really do. “Harder,” she whispers loudly, and the walls are so thin it’s like it’s your ear she’s whispering in.

Your clawed hand grasps a pen as tightly as it possibly can, and you begin filling out as many forms and citations as you can. Whatshisname next door thrusts so hard into his girl of the week that his desk topples over with a resounding crash. “Spirits be damned,” he mutters. His voice grows ever more familiar, but you still can’t remember his name. “I think you just knocked over my entire store of supplies.”

“Come back over and fuck me in them,” she says throatily, and he does. The clatter of guns and armor falling from their neat, orderly little boxes masks the sound of your tiny pencil-cup hitting the floor as you groan and pull at your own buckles.

"Oh, god," she babbles between thrusts and moans and whimpers, "I, I love turian cock."

You wonder if she'd love yours just as much, if not more. You think about the depths to which she'd show her devotion, her pink human tongue reaching out and lapping at your ridged cock. You imagine what it'd be like to trail your claws through her hair and push her head down, forcing her down to her knees. Your armor is in a heap on the ground.

She moans into her fist and you can hear how wet she is. The noises she's making are obscene.

The friction between your rough palm and slick cock grows unbearable.

His subharmonics are going crazy and you know he's close. You quietly, unconsciously let out a pant, a breath, a slight chitter of the mandibles.

Suddenly, for just a second, everything stops. You realize you've left your office door wide open for anyone to witness your shame through.

Have you given yourself away? Oh, oh oh oh, Spirits. 

The walls are paper-thin and you would give anything to change places with your neighbor, the C-Sec requisitions officer. You've completely lost track of time, you have no idea what hour it is. Night and day are one and the same in this hellhole. The moment ends. Your fist is like a vise around your cock, just like her cunt, clamping around his and he's thrusting into her and the walls are like paper. You can hear everything and he's close. You're close but not there quite just--

 

_Yet._

Your right hand reaches up to cover your mandibles and you're spasming and coming all over the place, the force of your orgasm hitting you like the butt of a rifle in the back of the head. All those citations you hastily filled out to give you peace of mind are ruined, completely ruined with splatters of cum, and suddenly you realize that you don't give a fuck. From the room next door, you can hear him pulling out, his cock drenched with turian jizz and human fluids. You wonder if he took an antihistamine, if he'll be walking funny tomorrow. You know she will. In the empty glow of your shameful orgasm, you want to laugh at the thought of it. But then you'd be given away.

She kisses him and leaves, and she doesn't even look your way as she walks past your open door. Your armor lies in a heap at your ankles under your desk.

It's too quiet as you wait for your neighbor to leave and go home, the silence only broken up and punctuated by the occasional thump of the C-Sec requisitions guy, _what the fuck is his name, you know what he sounds like when he comes but you don't even know his name_ , picking up a gun or a piece of specialized Spectre armor and replacing it in its box.

Eventually, he leaves too, and you get dressed and start to clean up after yourself. You pick up the pens that lie on the floor, wipe up your cum which coats your desk in a monument to your shameful voyeurism. In a fit of disgust and self-loathing, you roar and crumple up all of your papers and throw them into the trash. All your important reports and evidence are backed up at your terminal, anyway, which you can properly clean off tomorrow.

You take the rapid transit home and close the blinds and curl up in your concave bed and dream of nothing at all.


	2. Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus does some routine patrols on the Presidium.

Weeks have passed, and you wake up every artificial morning to another day of pointless work. Slowly, you’ve started to recognize the people you see on patrol: an annoying, unlicensed hanar street preacher, a perpetually arguing couple, two loitering turian businessmen lounging around a bank. Patrol duty is boring, but you’d rather spend hours on end working meaninglessly outside than sitting in your office and working even more uselessly. That, and you can’t look the requisitions officer in the eye. He knows, he has to know.

He must have heard you that day so long ago, that day which still feels fresh in your mind. The Citadel keeps you awake at night, as always, but now even your precious hours of sleep are invaded with troublesome visions of red hair and freckled skin.

You wonder what her breasts would feel like. You’ve never been with a human before, only in your dreams and fantasies. Every night, you dream about her. Every damn night.

You haven’t seen her since that day. You wonder if she even lives on the Citadel at all. Maybe she was just a tourist passing through, or a human soldier on shore leave. There are enough of those milling about. They cause some trouble in the bars and gentlemen’s clubs, but that’s not really your division and so you don’t really pay attention. You should, but you don’t.

Humans aren’t interesting unless they’re her.

This is the secret that keeps you up at night, the darkness that claws at your heart through your carapace. You, Garrus Vakarian, have fallen in love with a human that you will never meet, will never see again, will never hold and cherish and fuck, fuck her like an animal and tear her apart into bloody crimson pieces. Love is destructive. You never should have succumbed to the sound of her voice and her cries of ecstasy as another turian fucked her and made her his own.

You want to ball your clawed hands up into a fist and punch yourself in the face, but instead you stand perfectly still and watch the rabble mill about on the too-bright, too-artificially-sunny surface of the Presidium.

It’s the same scene every day: same hanar preacher, same arguing human couple, same loitering turians.

Your visor detects movement in your peripheral vision, and you turn your head to see what it is.

Spirits.

It’s her.

She’s wearing a lovely dress, and there’s a pistol at her hip. So she’s a soldier. And she’s laying her hand on the shoulder of one of the turian businessmen and laughing as she trails her hand through the other’s fringe.

You can’t hear the words she says to them, but there’s a quiet rumbling of agreement and hunger and desire in the subharmonics of the two turians that carries over the ambient buzz and chatter of the Presidium and you can see the way their eyes light up like predators towards her. You can see how they turn her into meat with their lusty gazes, and you’re no better than them.

You feel sick, a darkness weaving its way deep into the pit of your gizzard, and you should look away as she takes them by the hand and wanders off into a more secluded alleyway, but you don’t. You shouldn’t find yourself walking after them, a seamy tightness insinuating itself into the crotch of your too-tight armor, your breath hitching in your throat and choking in your dual vocal chords, but here you are.

The shadows give you enough cover for them not to notice you, and your visor is a faint indigo light in the darkness. Quietly, you switch its video recorder on and watch.

She’s on her hands and knees, and this time you can actually see her face as she moans and wraps her lips around the ridged cock of the first turian while the second, a barefaced young man, rams into her from behind. Her breasts bounce back and forth mesmerizingly. You zoom in so you can record it for posterity.

By posterity you mean yourself, tonight, fucking your fist violently and screaming muffled curses into the plates of your forearm.

You notice the color of her eyes. It’s odd that, out of all things, this is the thought that comes to your mind. In the midst of the lust and the animalistic desire and the subharmonic whispers and groans of ecstasy, you’re noticing that her eyes are green.

You suppose you must be losing your mind. It’s easier to look at her green eyes and copper hair and freckled breasts than the scars that crisscross her back and body. You don’t want to wonder why she’s got those scars.

It’s hard to remain dispassionate and maintain your façade of secrecy and stay hidden in the shadows, it’s harder than your cock, which twitches uncomfortably against the plating of your armor. You can’t loosen your armor without making a sound and giving yourself away. If you’d come out of the safety of darkness only a few minutes before, maybe you could have been spared. Maybe you could have joined in. The thought is enough to force you down to your knees, imagining what it’d be like to share a human woman with two others. Would she favor your cock above the other? Turian women complimented you for your reach; maybe she would too.

At this point, they’ve flipped her over on her back, revealing creamy white skin lying taught over—Spirits, look at that fucking waist, you want to whisper. Barefaced turian is pulling out, a string of cum connecting his still-hard cock to her slick pink vulva.

“Ready for round two?” she asks, her voice obscured by the rhythmic impact of the other turian’s hips snapping against her chest as he titfucks her. She leans her head around his hips so that bareface can see her wink cheekily.

You have a great view of the whole thing. Fuck. Not masturbating gets harder and harder, just like your cock, which is also getting harder and harder with each second. Spirits, why did C-Sec make its armor so fucking restrictive? You resort to fumbling clumsily at your crotch plate to try and relieve the pressure. There’s a slight pneumatic hiss, its sound lost in the wet noises of interspecies fucking, and finally, you’re free.

The recycled night air is icy in contrast to the tepid heat of inside your uniform, and you suck in a short sharp hiss of breath with shock. Your poor, neglected cock is overly sensitive and its skin is stretched taut and thin over engorged flesh. Gingerly, you stroke your hypersensitive cock, wincing a little at the friction between rough, gloved palms and thin skin. Your sheath must have retracted already in your armor.

There’s no abundance of lubrication, though, and you thank the Spirits for that as it soaks into your gloves, leaving stains that you know it’ll take ages to wash out. Like you care about that now, when you’re getting such a great show of that girl, that fucking girl. She’s up against the wall now, and her back’s to you, and her breasts are bouncing up and down. Her hair’s so red. So fucking beautiful. You never thought you’d be into that kind of thing but Spirits, if you got to touch her even once, you know you’d never go back.

Someone puts his claws to her waist and you want to cry out in indignity. Her waist is a thing to worship, a thing of beauty. Nobody should tarnish and mar it—nobody but you, that is. It’s strange how possessive you’re getting over this girl you’ve only seen once in your life. Your precum-sodden gloves lie discarded in a shabby corner and you’re doubled over, your fist tighter around your cock than ever before in your life.

She’s moaning and whining and whimpering away in some strange human tongue, soft words bubbling out of her mouth, and even though she doesn’t have subharmonics, her voice is fucking beautiful. You’re not sure what she’s saying but you could listen to her all day. Your visor continues to record her bouncing up and down on turian cock as you shut your eyes and pretend that you’re the one she’s moaning litanies of lust for.

Finally, like the unstoppable, destructive collision of an asteroid with a planet, you feel your orgasm smash into you in a great pulsing haze of heat. Your eyes snap open as your seed spills out onto the dim light of the filthy alleyway, and she’s looking right at you. Her eyes are linked to yours. Spirits, you’re fucked, you’re really, really fucked now. The other turians are taking turns with her, and her eyes are locked onto yours and all you can do is pry yourself away and run away as fast as you can, proverbial tail tucked between your thighs.

Your gloves are gone, left behind for homeless quarian scavengers and hungry varren, and you refasten your crotch place clumsily, trying to forget the come-hither look she had in her eyes for you. You’re a fucking coward and you hate yourself.

Like a child, you’re running all the way home, and you can feel the stares of everyone else around you. You know they can smell the pheromones all over your armor, and you try not to look them in the eye. You’ve had enough eye contact for today, you don’t think you can handle looking at anyone else at all today. Because they’ll know.

Spirits, you’re fucked up. You’re so fucked up.


	3. Family Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus gets a call from his dad.

You’re so fucked up as you lock your door, and you’re so fucked up as you shut the blinds, and you’re so fucked up as you hook up your omni-tool to a large monitor on the wall. Her voice is tinny and distant from your cheap shitty speakers, and you quietly remind yourself to go to _Morlin’s famous shop_ to buy some new ones at a ridiculous, rip-off price.

Not that it really matters to you how tinny and distant her moans are from your shit surround-sound speakers. All that matters to you is hearing her voice. At times, you don’t even have to look at the screen to know her face, because it’s been burned, white-hot, into the thin skin of your triple eyelids. You’ve spent so much time thinking about her in the time between buckling into the rapid transit and bucking into your fist that, even though there are a million words you could use to describe her (red frin—red hair, green eyes, pale creamy skin, blue veins but red blood, low voice and musical laugh, tiny waist, _breasts_ ) they will not—can never really compare to the image you’ve formed of her in your mind.

Of course, that doesn’t stop you from enjoying your filthy private show in the privacy of your home. No, not at all.

Your chosen vantage point was really, really great for recording this, you think to yourself, as you watch a turian blow his load all over her face, leaving her covered in a sticky sheen as she fumblingly gropes at his cock to get it hard again. A second turian grabs her hips and slams into her cunt, his hips snapping arhythmically and jerkily into her.

You find yourself thrusting irregularly into your hand. Your left hand traces delicately over the sensitive hide of your throat and the back of neck and the base of your fringe, and you slowly close your fingers around your throat.

You’re losing your mind, you’re losing your oxygen, and you’re delirious with lust and desire and hypoxia and she’s spreading her legs on the screen, anaphylactic turian cum positively _gushing_ out of her and dripping on the floor. Your fist grows tighter around your cock, and your fingers tighten around your neck. Blue blood pounds in your eyes and against your clawed fingers.

You can’t think, you can’t do anything but feel, and even that’s slowly numbing itself. It’s the perfect release from the stresses of your terrible life. As tiny black dots swarm themselves across your vision, and the human girl runs her tongue down a turian’s ridged cock obscenely, you get a tiny, temporary reprieve from this prison that your father’s trapped you in. It’s exquisite, and you’re in a haze as you spasm and come all over your couch and floor and arm.

Your fingers grow slack around your neck, and you let the sweet bliss of breathing come back to you.

From what seems like miles away, you hear your omni-tool beeping and ringing.

Curses springing unbidden from your mandibles, you wipe your cum off of your omni-tool and squint to see who’s calling at this fucking hour. Your fingers are sticky and you fumble with the controls.

Your breath catches in your throat as you read the caller ID.

 

It’s your father.

 

You have half a mind to just reject the call like you always do and curl up and go to sleep like you always do, but something feels like you should answer it this time. You press the “accept call” button on your omni-tool and try to compose yourself for the vid-call.

The first thing that you notice is that your father looks tired for just a second. The second thing you notice is him molding and reforming his face back into that stern fatherly mask that you’ve known him to wear all your life. You feel naked and self-conscious under his judgmental gaze, and you wonder if he can see the bruising finger marks on your neck, if he can detect the blue flush of blood on the more exposed parts of your face, if he can hear the tremor in your voice as you say, “Hello, father,” to him and refuse to look him in the eyes.

Looking at him is like looking in a mirror through time. The resemblance between the two of you is uncanny, and every night you look at yourself before you go to bed and feel yourself becoming your father with every paycheck and every citation.

“Garrus.” His voice is taciturn, like always. He clears his throat. Neither of you are looking one another in the face. “I,” he falters for a second before regaining face, “I just wanted to check up on my oldest son.”

You want to yell that it is the middle of the night, he could check up at you during office hours, when you’re trapped and stuck behind your desk doing a job you _don’t want to do_ , a job you’re only doing because he _forced you to do it_ , if he really cared about you he wouldn’t stifle you so much and let you actually reach your _full fucking potential, I am not your clone, I am my own turian_ —but instead you swallow your pride down because it’s all been said before and try to stay calm as you say, “I’m fine,” as your treasonous subharmonic vocal chords scream all the things that you meant to say.

Never before have you been glad that your microphone is shit, because your father either doesn’t notice the tone of your subharmonics, or chooses to pretend not to notice them.

You steel yourself for even more criticism, like always, but his face is a sick parody of fatherly love and affection (because there is no way that the _Vakarian patriarch_ , and the words are acrid on your metaphorical tongue, could ever be a real father to you) as he says something that you could not have ever prepared yourself for:

 

“Garrus, I’m proud of you. I really am.”

 

Despite the surprise which you’re sure is obvious and evident all over your face, which is a double of his, he continues, “I know it’s been hard for you to give up your childhood dreams and join C-Sec, but you’ve been doing really great work out there. C-Sec’s the Vakarian way, boy. All that Spectre nonsense was completely out of your station, and you were saved from a world of hurt and disappointment.”

You want to scream that it wasn’t up to him to decide what was best for you. You want to reach through the extranet connection and fucking throttle him like he strangled your dreams. He _sabotaged_ your Spectre training. How the fuck are you supposed to listen to him spouting this bullshit when less than a year ago, he so nonchalantly walked up to the head of training, a respectable Turian Spectre, and told him a filthy lie that you’d have to drop out of the program because _Corpalis Syndrome_ , a disease that fucking _nobody_ got, ran in your family?

He’s still talking but hot blood is pumping through your ears so loudly that you can’t hear anything that he’s saying. You nod and dutifully pretend, like always, to listen to the bullshit pouring out of his mouth.

As he blathers on insensitively about carrying out the family destiny and the basic fundamentals of turian society, you mumble, “Maybe I don’t want to be a good turian like you, Father,” more to yourself than to anyone else. You feel like a child again as he patronizes you relentlessly. It’s all you can do. 

Your father stops and looks you in the eye. You bite down on your tongue and change the subject as you taste your very own bitter blue blood seeping into your mouth: “I said, how is Mother doing?”

He looks old and weary as he apologizes, “I’m sorry, Garrus, but your mother had a bad fall back in Cipritine. She’s doing well now,” and with a waver in his subharmonics, you know he’s lying, because just like you, he can’t control his second voice box, “and I’m staying with her in a hospital in Palaven just to check up on her and make sure she recovers properly. I’d have told you in person if I could.” 

You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. The sadness behind his words and the inherent finality of his tone hits you like a freight elevator’s doors, closing, closing, eternally separating you from a happier future that you could have held in your hands, if only you’d just stepped forward and asked the girl from the elevator’s name. You feel crushed and emotionless and you can’t say a thing in response. 

You don’t say anything as you close the communication, words failing to reach your throat from the terrible depths of your lungs.

 

Your apartment is dim in the artificial midnight and your blinds stay shut as you clumsily fondle yourself in an effort to try to make yourself feel anything, anything at all. It’s an addiction and a compulsion and you can’t help yourself. You can’t stop yourself from doing this anymore 

Your cock stays flaccid and impotent, and you delete the video. The black screen of your television is like a twisted mirror, infinitely reflecting your shame back upon you.

 

Spirits. You’re so fucked up.


	4. Inbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus makes a delivery.

The past few nights have left you sleepless, tossing and turning in your sheets, your carapace an awkward protuberance behind your neck. You can’t feel comfortable in your own skin anymore, and you suppose that it’s all because you’re a terrible turian. After all, _good turians_ are supposed to be happy and content in their own stations, content with their own mediocrity. And you are the opposite of content.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you throw yourself into investigative work. Recently, organs have been popping up all over the black market, though the sheer volume of them doesn’t match up with any reports of disappearances on the Citadel. You’ve found a lead, though, or maybe just a glitch in the system: one of the livers purchased by an undercover agent belongs to someone still living.

You’re not sure if the turian’s still alive, which has terrifying consequences, or if his death went unreported, but a lead’s a lead and you type up a report and shove all your evidence into a manila folder of datapads (all the evidence is backed up into your omni-tool, but it’ll be more dramatic to show your evidence to the Executor in person) and leave a message on your boss’s answering machine that you’ll be up soon.

 

You walk up what seem to be unending steps and staircases to one of the upper wards and take the elevator up to the surface of the Presidium. The automated doors slide closed and briefly, you think about that girl you saw months—or was it years? Spirits, you’ve been here so long, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have your taloned feet on real, solid ground—ago in an elevator like this one, her green eyes flirtatious before she turned away from you and pressed the button to go to some restricted, private, _C-Sec only_ area that in retrospect, you should have taken note of. Who was she? You dream about her each and every night, but you never learned her name; her face is burned onto the insides of the delicate skin of your eyelids, and yet you’ve only seen her in brief snatches and snapshots, her lips wrapped around the anonymous cocks of barefaced ruffians and her legs wrapped around the thin waists of unfamiliar coworkers.

The embassies are bathed in false sunlight, like always. As you pass the front desk, an asari receptionist whose name, written on a little placard on her desk, you don’t care to read pushes her chair in and strides out to her lunch break, breasts swaying in her low-cut dress. You think about saying something to her, Spirits know how long it’s been since you’ve had any companionship other than the company of your own left hand, but she’s gone before you can even think of something charming to say.

So you wander aimlessly through a maze of little worker bee interns and keepers that you’ve memorized until you reach Pallin’s door. 

You tap the entrance console lightly; you know he knows that you’re coming. You know he’s working today and he never goes on lunch breaks.

 

The light stays red.

 

The door remains locked.

 

You quietly curse to yourself and turn on the infrared scanner on your visor to check where he is; a cursory scan reveals two lifeforms: a turian reclining in a chair and a kneeling human before hi— _Oh Spirits, it’s her_.

 

You just know it has to be her. After all, who else could it be? Pallin’s got a reputation for hating humans on political principle more than the reflexive xenophobia that other turians tend to possess or the deep-seated resentment veterans and other _good turians_ bury deep within their hearts and choke down every time they see one of those fleshy, pink _abominations_ , as your father used to say before he put you back in your place; after all, you were raised a good turian, you were supposed to be a good turian from a good family.

You’re a terrible turian as you set your custom-made visor to the “detect life” setting, and you’re a terrible turian as you scan the area for anyone passing through. Your visor tells you that it’s just you, your boss, and a human (helpfully labeled as Jane Shepard, an Alliance officer, the information gleaned from extranet databases and criminal records) all alone in this upscale office area.

 

Navy-blue blood beats against your eardrums in time to Shepard’s head bobbing on Pallin’s cock. You can’t hear anything over the unbearable drum-like sound, and yet you can tell exactly what’s being said and not being said. The visuals through your visor are low definition and heat-mapped, but you can see how he throws his head back; you can see how she strokes his plates with one hand while veritably swallowing his cock down. She’s growing feverish by human standards, the scanner detecting changes in her physiology by the second. You can bet that beads of sweat are probably dripping down her bare chest, exposed by a happily unbuttoned blouse. You can imagine how there’s an asari-like sheen  of moisture across her pink body, you can imagine how she blushes and moans.

You’re palming yourself frantically through your uniform, not daring to reveal yourself lest a secretary or intern or temp worker passes by and performs a citizen’s arrest for indecent exposure. Your erection is a hard lump straining against blue fabric and charcoal-grey armor, and you can’t bear it. Spirits, you can’t bear it any longer, and you’re recklessly unzipping yourself, shoving your cock into your tight dry fist with no sense of decorum or restraint. You know that you’re being careless, you know you’ll be chafed and raw and sore come tomorrow, but at the same time, you can’t stop; you can’t move in any direction except that towards your own filthy, reckless release.

Pallin’s grabbed her by the hair and he’s fucking her throat, her eyes are rolling back in her head and you know she can barely breathe. _Does she get off on that?_ You think about what it’d be like to close your taloned fingers around her neck, claws just sharp enough to leave tiny dents in her skin, her face a flush of brilliant crimson as you slam into her soaking cunt. 

Her fingers are roughly jammed into her pussy and she’s frantically fingering herself, and oh, you’d never let her do that. If it was you in that room, she’d be on her back on that desk, papers and reports and extranet terminals scattered and shoved aside, her legs hooked over your carapace as you fucked her silly. The image’s stuck in your mind as you climax, your cum splattering all over the wall you voyeuristically looked through to indulge your sickening perversion.

Your eyes flit around to see if there’s anything that you could use to clean up; your efforts are not rewarded. Shepard’s pulling away, her mouth opened in anticipation for your boss’s anaphylactic semen, and you can’t bear to look. You can’t bear to watch her anymore, and yet you do. Your orgasmic rush is gone just as soon as you came, leaving you empty and hollow inside, just as you were before. Your knees are weak, and your cum dries on the wall, leaving a conspicuous stain, and you leave your datapad in an inbox mounted on Pallin’s door.

 

You hate your job so, so fucking much.


	5. Criminal Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus checks some databases.

It’s approximately two hours until you get off work. You’re in your office again, and you’re waiting for the email from Pallin giving you the go-ahead to investigate your new lead; you can’t seem to take a single step without wading through red tape that figuratively sticks to your spurs and trips you up, and meanwhile whoever’s perpetrating this crime’s just running _free_ , just sitting pretty in his or her black-market mansion somewhere on Omega or some other place filled with criminal scum.

The walk back from Pallin’s administrative complex was uneventful. You’d spent the time ruminating and scanning the area shamefully for anyone who could have witnessed your depravity. Only as you took the elevator back to your office did you realize that you were unzipped, though your cock had mercifully softened and retracted back to within its plates. Thank the Spirits for the little things.

 

Time seems to move at a sluggish pace and you drum your claws on your plastic desk, leaving miniscule scratches that mar its smoothness. In your boredom, you begin to idly look up people on the extranet. This is your other dirty little secret, far less career and reputation destroying than your sexual deviancy. Somehow you find your fingers typing out “Jane Shepard,” a common enough name, and somehow, you find yourself searching through databases for the woman who’s haunted your dreams.

It’s moments like this that you love your job and the clearance that it grants you, even if it grants you nothing else—no dignity, no freedom, no autonomy—and you’re greedily devouring every detail her file has. You can feel like you’re growing closer to her, you can pretend that you understand this human, this vexing temptress, this complete and utter mystery.

Her file’s mostly clean, and you can see that she’s only twenty, just one year younger than you. She was a refugee from Mindoir, which you quickly open a new window to read about; the many human colonies lost to poor infrastructure caused by greedy expansionism never piqued your interest. Until now. You suppose that explains her scars.

You read that she’s a trainee for the Systems Alliance special forces, with the rank of N2, and you feel a dark surge of jealousy clench its clawed fist into your heart. She’s the future that you can never have; she has all the opportunities that your father dangled over your head only to take away with the mantra of _“A good turian always knows his place.”_ Spirits, you hate him. You hate him so much.

 

Disgust leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you can’t seem to get rid of, and you shut off your terminal and stalk out of your office to clear your head, any prospective emails from your boss completely forgotten. Shepard’s probably riding his cock that you’ve _seen_ , _you’ve_ _seen your boss’s fucking dick, you got off to your boss fucking someone, you’re so fucking sick_ —and you feel like the prepackaged lunch you picked at hours ago is fighting its way out of your gullet up into your throat. You feel like you’re drowning; you never learned to swim, you were too heavy.

The Wards are loud and dingy and crowded, like always, as you walk home to change out of your uniform. Yes, you’re cutting work, but you suppose you were never a particularly good type of turian.

Your apartment is empty and reminds you of your complete pitifulness, like everything else in your life. As you unclasp your buckles and turn your uniform inside-out, you dispassionately notice a whitish stain of dextro-proteins and dead genetic fluids caked to the inside of your crotch. You throw it in the wash and sit naked on your couch, wondering what you should wear, if you even decide to go out today after all.

Eventually, you choose something muted and dull, like most of your clothing. The time you spent waiting for the wash to finish means that your shift, and most of your coworkers’ shifts, are over. The eternal evening lights sting your eyes a little bit, and you see a turian in a C-Sec uniform walk into Flux, a redheaded human in his arms. You don’t want to know if it’s Jane, you don’t think you could bear to see her again.

 

You think about following them to fulfil your sick voyeuristic masochism, but you don’t.

 

In your frustration, you waylay the bars and nightclubs that your coworkers frequent and hand a left into Chora’s Den , a seedier dive. There’s a seat open in front of a poledancing asari stripper; she looks suspiciously like your boss’s receptionist. You wonder if maybe they’re the same, but dismiss the notion; all asari look the same to you anyway. You know that’s horribly racist, but asari on the Citadel don’t really tend to get jobs at C-Sec; you haven’t met a single one that wasn’t blue, chipper, and working as eye candy.

You lean forward in your seat. Anything to forget about today. She smiles at you, like she knows you, and gyrates before you, running her delicate fingers down her cheeks to her thighs, cupping her perfect breasts along the way. Reflexively, you reach out to touch her, but she bats your hand away and sultrily whispers, “Touching’s extra,” before she drops down to her knees and spreads her legs wide. You can see how hard she’s trying to make it look like she wants you, how hard she’s trying to make it look like she _isn’t_ dead inside.

You decide you don’t care as you hastily grab your wallet and shove a few hundred credits into her panties without counting them off—you don’t care about money anymore, there’s nothing that you could buy to fill the emptiness in your soul. Her eyes widen for just a second as you grip her thigh roughly, then return back to the mask that she wears for all her customers. She’s bending over and her fingers are digging gently into the soft folds of her flesh; she’s spreading herself open for you, only you. Or at least that’s what you can pretend. Your heartbeat’s pulsing in your cock, and blood rushes from your head to below as you stand up and seize her upper arm, pulling her into one of Chora’s Den’s private rooms.

As you flip her over and throw her onto a stained mattress, she opens her mouth to inform you of her rates, but you push her head down and lift her hips up so that she’s lying face-down on the bed, her still-covered ass in the air. You unzip your pants and pull her panties down, revealing that her cunt’s basically the same as Shepard’s, except for the hue. Air hisses through your mandibles as you inhale sharply and position yourself to thrust into her, locking her ankles into your spurs to keep her legs and sex spread wide open for you.

You ram into her again and again and again, all the hate and self-loathing and frustration from today spilling out of you through your cock, and she’s shaking and spasming around you, pretending to moan and like it like the good whore she is. As you speed up, her moans begin to become syncopated with the rhythm of your hips snapping against her ass. You unspur her and flip her over; if you squint your eyes just enough you can pretend that she’s Shepard, that she’s the human who’s haunted you through every night and every day—though of course her moans and mewls are too high-pitched and false sounding, her breasts too small and perky, her skin almost completely unmarred by scars. You can pretend.

She throws her head back and her eyes turn black and roll into her skull and suddenly there’s _something_ probing at you, a needle jabbing into the back of your head, the base of your skull. Even as your cock is buried deep within her, somehow, she’s inside _you_ , blue biotics tingling and crackling everywhere you’re making contact with her. Your mind feels violated and impure and you can’t fit your psyche inside your brain anymore. Your thoughts are filled to the brim and they’re pouring, gushing over and filling the void between your mind and hers, creating a slurry of emotions and sensation and pure animalistic lust. The barrier between your mind and the rest of the world shatters, and you’re inside her and you are everything and you are one 

The dual sensations are both titillating and disconcerting; you can feel both the pleasure of her cunt clamping around your cock and the pain of your client’s ridges scraping across your vulva. Your mouth is panting for breath and whispering “Embrace eternity” with two different pairs of lungs. Your skin is blue and your facial markings are blue, and your face is flushed with heat and you’re staring into your own eyes, black and wide and blue and beady. Are your heels wrapped around his chest or is your carapace slick with sweat? Maybe it’s both.

 

You feel dizzy, and you come while thinking of Shepard, though you’re not quite sure who you are as you do so.

 

And as soon as the connection flooded your brain, it’s gone; the asari harlot’s backing away from you hastily, something like horror, or perhaps sorrow, in her eyes, and injecting herself with antihistamines even as your cum spills out of her and soaks into the mattress.

 

You’re throwing a credit chit at her and she’s looking at you with wide, frightened eyes before she speaks. “Your mind. It’s terrifying.” She hands you a business card which you have no intention of reading, and whispers, “Please don’t tell Fist I gave you this,” before returning your credit card, the transaction finished. “He’d kill me for helping the competition.” You know she’s telling the truth, and somehow, you don’t feel anything at all until much later.

As you leave the room, you remember how she shook with fear and exhaustion and you turn the consort’s business card over and over in your trembling hands like it’ll burst into flames at any moment. Your head is filled with fog and you know that you’ll never be as close to anyone as you were then ever again. You remember Oraka, that once-beloved general, telling you “Once you go blue, you’ll always stay true,” and patting you on the back over a drink, a deep sorrow in his subharmonics cutting through his flippant tone.

 

Suddenly, as you’re unlocking your front door to shuffle inside and lie down for another sleepless night, thoughts of Shepard bubble up and you realize that you will never be rid of her, you can never be rid of her, no matter how you distract yourself.

You thought that a quick fuck would solve all your problems, but it seems you can’t just get rid of your obsessions with a simple trick. You crumple up the business card and throw it into the wastebasket, and the emptiness and shame in your heart threatens to consume you entirely.


	6. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus dreams.

That night, you dream of heat and haze and emerald eyes glittering like twin gemstones in the fogs of the Cipritine autumn. It’s cliché, you know, but it doesn’t keep your mind from making the metaphor. Shepard is a precious gem, iridescent and glittering, yet too precious for you to ever hold, lest you sully her. In your dreams, she’s dressed like that poor asari trick you kicked out of Fist’s private suite with tears running down her blue, freckled cheeks and feral fear in her girlish eyes.

 

The whore’s clothes were grimy and sullied with sweat and the dim stench of the bar and its patrons, but the Shepard beside you shines brighter than the Trebian sun. Her outfit is shiny and tight in the autumnal sunlight, glossy latex hugging her every curve and blinding you with brilliance.

You are a Spectre, and your badge glows with warmth, deep within the cloth folds of your jacket. Your eyes glance to a  loaded sniper rifle lying on your concave bed, then back to Shepard, whose skin is perfect and unmarred by the scars of the past, and that’s when you know for sure you’re dreaming, though you try your hardest to forget the fact as you breathe in her almost-real aroma and taste her scent on your tongue.

Your talons dance along her neck and impossible waist as the sun sets on the silver city and the sun kisses the sky goodbye as the moon rises above you both. You leave tiny nicks in the fabric along her waist and you don’t care, you don’t care, she is yours. She moans slightly and you know that even though she doesn’t love you and will never love you, even in this dream, her arousal is real and that’s all you’ll ever really get. Your mouth twists into a terrible grin, all teeth and chitin and keratin, as she comes undone beneath you, her lust enkindling itself with your bestial ardor, your savage hatred.

 

In your dream, she whispers the secrets of Menae’s riches in your ears as you but you cannot focus on the words because she is unbuttoning your shirt and deftly pulling off the clasps, her fingers groping for purchase in the plates covering your chests. Once you’re undressed enough for her satisfaction, you cut her loose from her vestments with the carefully lazy flick of a sharpened claw, and she’s finally, finally laid bare before your starving eyes. You’ve seen her nude form before, but this time, she’s naked for you, only you, and you’re not stealing snapshots of her from behind partitions and doors left ajar.

 

It’s not really as satisfying when the sight of her body isn’t being robbed away from someone else’s touch; you can’t win a game without someone else losing.

 

You pin her wrists beneath your palms and you hook her calves into your spurs like stirrups, your cock unbound and primed to enter her, at long last, when some horribly human expression you can’t understand wells up onto her face and she speaks, each word ringing off your surroundings like a cacophony of tiny bells.

“Wait,” she pleads, and her voice has no subharmonics for you to decipher and you cannot understand her without them and you push into her roughly, a deep shudder pushing itself from your lungs and rattling in the overtones of your subharmonics.

 

“Wait,” she begs, “I just want to look at you.”

 

You bite down roughly into the crook between her collarbone and neck to stop yourself from crying out with ecstasy in a high keening moan; bright red alien blood drips down your chin and clots in her fiery hair like spilled coffee in lace.

You count her freckles like stars in the black night sky as she screams nonsense words of bliss and shouts to the heavens out of pleasure. You fuck her like she’s made of glass, haltingly and gently, though her ankles bruise purple and blue in the hooks of your spurs, and she belongs to you you have claimed her as yours and nobody will ever take her again but you.

Each ridge of your cock locks into her cunt like it was made to fit nowhere else, and you come inside her again and again as she shudders and spasms around you. She’s soft and pliable like putty beneath your hands, and you mold her into the perfect shape as her orgasm rattles both your frames and your bed creaks beneath the force of each thrust of your hips.

 

You tell yourself that she’s sobbing with joy and screaming out of rapture as you gingerly pull yourself out of her and stroke yourself back to hardness, your inflammatory cum still dripping out of her pussy and staining your bedsheets. You’ve ravaged her with bite marks all over her neck and chest, and her breasts rise and fall with each heaving gasp for air she makes. She is yours, you’ve marked her as your bondmate, she is dirty and sullied with her blood and your cum and a thin sheen of your combined sweat covers her brow–she is beautiful and she belongs to you and only you, nobody but you will touch her while her scars heal and her lips stay red and swollen from the tiny nips and nicks you’ve made with your teeth upon them.

Your erection resurrected, you flip her over and raise her hips in the air like a varren bitch in heat before plunging into her once more. Each snap of your hips elicits a tiny wail, though it’s muffled by the mattress pressed into her open mouth and dampened by her drool.

 

You find yourself capable of speech once more, your control and domination over her body extending to control of your errant tongue-tied voiceboxes, and you darkly vocalize, “You won’t ever, ever, give yourself over to another again,” each syllable punctuated by another thrust, and another, and another, your subharmonics pronouncing a deep jealousy and possessiveness that you never consciously realized, though it always resided within you deeper than your very bones.

She can’t think rationally, and she can’t say anything but, “Yes, oh yes, please, please, please,” as she turns her head to try to look into your eyes, and you suppose that’s as good an answer as you’ll ever get.

Satisfied, you break your gaze and gently run your talons down her fringe to her back to leave only the tiniest of pink scratches on her skin.

Her legs grow weak and shaky, and she collapses on the bed as you pull out, your orgasm imminent and unrelenting, more unstoppable than your father’s decision to keep you from being a Spectre.

 

You try not to think of that. You focus on the girl, remember that in this dream you are a Spectre and your father didn’t win. You paint her back with blood and cum, and she is beautiful, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen, and you thank the Spirits for everything leading up to this imagined moment.

 

The blood slowly drains from your softening cock, and she turns over on rumpled sheets to face you, her hair tousled and wild, rings of bruises and cuts down her shoulders and waist.

“Garrus,” she says, and you realize you’ve never told her your name, you’ve never seen her face to face. A pink flush forms across her face, she reaches up to stroke your mandibles, and her lips round themselves into the words “I love–”

 

You wake up with sticky sheets and semen encrusted on your stomach, the ghost of her touch still lingering upon your face but quickly fading away into nothingness. And you know, you know that in your dreams she loved you more than any human could ever promise, and you know that you will never be able to approach her like a normal turian and you will never be able to talk to her without tripping over your words and remembering all the times she’s fucked men other than you, men better than you.

A wordless howl escapes your jaws, you slam your balled-up fists against the wall, and it’s all you can do to resist wringing your fingers around your neck to calm down, you’re hyperventilating you need to be still you need to calm down.

Your palms crush your voiceboxes closed to stop your shuddering sobs and your breathing slows down and it’s just what you do to cope and breathe and manage. You chuck your visor in the bin, next to the forgotten business card, and start to prepare yourself for another day of work.


End file.
